


Foreigner’s God

by Infamous_society



Series: Wasteland, Baby [9]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drinking Games, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Helm's Deep, Inspired by a Hozier Song, M/M, Protective Legolas Greenleaf, Rohan, Song: Foreigner's God (Hozier), The Silmarillion References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:40:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28963293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infamous_society/pseuds/Infamous_society
Summary: Éomer is afraid of you, but perhaps his wonder makes him fall in loveA journey through Middle Earth alongside its characters accompanied by Hozier songs.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Original Character(s), Éomer Éadig/Original Female Character(s), Éomer Éadig/Reader
Series: Wasteland, Baby [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090121
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Foreigner’s God

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long one sorry that mixes the film with the book
> 
> Foreigner’s God by Hozier

_wonder - (noun) a feeling of amazement and admiration, caused by something beautiful, remarkable, or unfamiliar._

  
  
Thundering hoofbeats drew closer. Rohan. Land of the horse lords. Drawing closer and closer, the riders surrounded you, the heat of the horses’ breath sticky on your neck.

You arrow was aimed at the man’s throat, restraint rippling through your body. Fire burned in your eyes - wild fury and dismay. Legolas’ movements mirrored yours, eons of training together rearing its head. Slowly you lowered your bow, anger still searing your veins. The man’s eyes were fixed on you. 

“I should shoot you, my lord,” your voice was steady and calm, “But I do not have the heart to do so in front of my friends.” 

Amusement flickered in his eyes, curiosity and wonder lingered. Steadily he removed his helmet, his hair was made of sunlight, eyes melting into the sun’s kisses, however his face was radiant with sorrow. 

He spoke of exile, of his uncle and his lands trapped under Saruman’s spell. Pity flooded your heart, hatred filled this kingdom and poisoned its people. 

Strength resided within him, but as you looked at him you could see his emptiness, his grief, his pain. You bowed your head slowly, his eyes transfixed on you. 

Dust clouds billowed as Éomer and his riders charged away from Edoras and into exile. 

Éomer was in awe, as if he was experiencing the first drops of a soft summer rain after a drought. You were raw, shameless, godless. Your gaze felt heavy on his soul - he felt defenceless. An image of brutal perfection that the stories of old could not do justice. Fear flooded his mind for an instant before cooling into a burning longing to see you once more. His exile hung heavy in the unspoken air. His cousin dead, his sister alone, his kingdom in ruin.

The plains seemed endless, galloping alongside Gandalf. You were older than the people of Rohan, older than this country. An elf of Greenwood, scars on your skin from battles that had faded into forgotten song. Still, this wild charge over foreign lands was filled with desperation, you had lived - these men had not. 

A green banner flickered in the distance. The Rohirrim. Green like the woods of home. Green like these plains. 

“Éomer,” your voice rang strong and clear. “Ride with us to battle.” 

Gandalf smiled next to you, “Your uncle is well again, he awaits you.”

Éomer’s eyes snapped away from you, widening with wonder. The hope of humans.

He turned back to his riders, “At dawn we ride to Helm’s Deep.”

You dismounted, leading your horse to where the rest were grazing. The sun was starting to set. A heaviness hung dark over the north eastern sky. The sky of home. 

“The darkness of war,” you spoke softly - turning to face Gandalf. 

He nodded, traces of sorrow on his face, “The darkness of Dol Guldur.”

Footsteps approached you. 

“Yet I am not there. Legolas is not there,” you felt a shadow fall on your face. “Legolas is not here with me. His father - our king - is fighting without us. Our lands are under attack yet Legolas does not know, only fears. What becomes of the woodland realm if Thranduil di-”

A steady hand touched your shoulder. Éomer. You winced, your outburst had been like a tempest, thunder slowly rising before anger and fear struck the earth. Éomer’s eyes flooded with pity, yet he was mortal. He would never understand the true danger you now faced or the true sorrow deep in your heart. 

Gandalf slowly turned away, a reassuring smile on his face, “You forget Celeborn and Thranduil have fought more wars than even you.” 

A distant scar on your back ached.

Éomer still stood next to you, his hand on your shoulder. Memories of a dying fire on frozen ground surrounded by barren trees flickered in your mind. He felt like the fire. 

“My lord?” You lifted your eyes from the dark sky, turning to face him. 

He smiled slightly, “I did not think I would see you again. I thought perhaps you would have fled these lands before my exile was lifted.”

“Perhaps,” you mused gently.

“You fear for your lands as I feared for mine - you are not there to defend them. Yet, there is still hope.”

A cool wind whistled across the grass. He shivered, you did not. 

“My lord, I have lived in my lands before your lands were your lands. Legolas was born a prince before your kings existed and yet you may be king before him,” your eyes flickered northwards again in despair. 

His hand lifted off your shoulder - you now shivered at a coldness that seemed to seep through your bones. 

“You speak highly of Legolas,” he murmured, a hint of annoyance flaring before vanishing like a drop of dew in the morning sun. 

“He is a younger brother to me,” your eyes met his, “I have trained, bled and wept alongside him.”

Éomer chuckled, the birdsong of home, “You both would have shot me at the same time.”

His hair glittered in the moonlight. 

“To protect my friends I would shoot you again, my lord.” 

Reaching for his hand, you smiled lightly. Nights laying under the stars in clearings, evenings running through halls drunk on the Elvenking’s wine, mornings climbing trees to watch the sunrise paint the sky. He seemed to be every memory, every fear and every wish in one. 

His hand felt warm in yours as you spoke, “The night grows cold, we ride for battle tomorrow. You need rest Éomer.” 

Your figure merged into shadow. Your eyes turned to watch the sky over Mirkwood once more. 

The cries of battle rang through the air. Éomer grimaced. Firefoot shifted beneath him, snorting with anticipation and fear. His riders behind him, silent except the occasional hoof churning the ground. Early morning days of sunlight were catching your armour, your bow on your back, sword in your hand - otherworldly. 

Your eyes met his, languidly smiling at him. He snapped his gaze away from you - battle lay ahead. The fate of his kingdom, the fate of Middle Earth would be decided in an instant. Your words hung heavy in his mind, you had seen his kingdom rise and perhaps you would see it fall. The morning sun’s rays warmed his back. He gathered his reins. 

“Rohirrim!” 

Firefoot whinnied. He raised his sword. You laughed slightly next to his side.

“To the king!”

You danced through the battle, graceful and delicate. Éomer believed for an instant you were a spirit sent from the Valar. Brutal and elegant as you relentlessly slaughtered the enemy. Moving with shameless wonder, vicious and deadly. Clamour of swords, cries of men and the thunder of hooves surrounded you both. 

Adrenaline and sorrow merged in his mind - the lust and grief of battle could never leave his heart. A mortal man doomed to die. 

Silhouettes of war rode towards him. His sword restless in his hand. Four riders. Charging across the battlefield, as if the cold wind from the Misty Mountains chased their souls. Your friends. 

Yet, you turned to him. An empty quiver, a sword dripping with blood, a hopeful grin on your face. A primal beauty, ethereal laced with darkness, menacing. He smiled, loosening his reins. The Uruk-hai either dead or fleeing. You were alive, Théoden still breathing. Adrenaline coursed through his body. 

  
Slowly you stretched, another battle under the same sky. Éomer rode next to you, joy radiating like sunlight on his face.

“You fought well,” his voice rough and giddy. 

A small smile appeared on your face, “I have fought many battles.”

Silence fell over you, the rays of light filtering through the destruction and death. A scar ached, a new cut bled. The seasons would pass again like a small ripple on the ocean. 

Dismounting, you sprung forward; lithe, agile, dangerous. Legolas did not flinch as you wrapped your arms around him, he merely raised an eyebrow at Éomer. You clasped Aragorn’s shoulder and drew Gimli close. Nights of travelling through mountains and forests - your immortality bleeding into their mortality. 

“The darkness of war hangs over Mirkwood and Lothlorien,” you murmured softly, weariness of war tainting your words. Legolas flinched. 

Éomer dismounted, his sword still drawn. His face full of hope as if he was watching the sun dawn in peace once more. His hand touched your shoulder - calm, reassuring. His moonlit face danced through your mind. 

Aragorn paused, “And they will fight.” 

“That does not mean they will survive.” 

“They will fight,” Legolas echoed, voice calm and steady.

Éomer shifted, his hand falling back to his side. A cold anger seeped through your mind. Fear. Fear for the lands, for the men, for Éomer. 

“You forget I fought alongside Isildur, I fought alongside Oropher and Durin,” you mounted your horse once more. 

Éomer mirrored you, a reflection flickering on a summer pool. A veiled amazement in his eyes, a hidden shock on his lips. 

“Shall it be me who does not return from Gondor in this age?” You gathered your reins. “Shall it be your father, Legolas, that dies? Or shall it be Isildur’s heir?” 

Legolas stood ready to interject.

“I do not fear war, I do not fear death. I fear losing you - my brothers,” Your voice was weary like some forgotten winter.

Éomer turned alongside you, riding towards the ruined wall. His breathing was steady, painfully mortal. Wonder filled his every word. Love. Or perhaps it was just battlelust. 

Your hand touched his arm, a cut raw bleeding with humanity. His arms embraced you, your tiredness and fear remained. 

Thranduil’s wine - Oropher’s wine - had ran through your veins as long as you had lived in Greenwood. Richer and more bitter than the wine of Doriath. Rohan ale had little effect. 

Legolas slammed another mug on the table, unaffected. Gimli, on the other hand, seemed to be struggling. You grinned at Legolas as you placed your hand on Éomer’s shoulder.

“My lord, will you not have a drinking contest with me?” 

He paused briefly, mirth in his face, “I am not as foolish as the dwarf. But I will drink in your company.”

He handed you a pint, his hand clasping round yours for a split second - a reassurance for himself that you were real. 

“Then you are wise,” Legolas spoke up, beckoning for another drink. You passed it to him, a silent vow of loyalty and friendship. 

He lent towards Éomer, “My friend, I am not blind, I watch how you stare at my dearest friend.”

He turned back to chugging his ale, laughing at Gimli. 

A blush smattered Éomer’s face, human. As red and as succulent as the first poisonous berries that blossomed in the cold thralls of winter. His lips would not be dissimilar. 

You laughed. Gimli thudded onto the table.Éomer’s hand clasped yours, a slight concern for the dwarf on his face. 

“I feel something...” Legolas spoke as the room fell silent. “A slight tingling in my fingers.” 

Perhaps the men of Rohan had not heard of Thranduil’s celebrations, thus they believed the elf. He was constantly mocking, teasing, goading. 

“Are you not Thranduil’s son?” You left the comfort of Éomer’s side, hitting Legolas swiftly on the head. He frowned at you. 

“Shall I tell your father that you are not the very same elf that drank his cellars dry with me?” You grinned at Éomer’s surprised expression. Millennia of living in Mirkwood had moulded you into a wild existence.

Legolas laughed, shrugging languidly, pulling you into an embrace, “Perhaps I jest. But Éomer watches you in earnest.”

And so Éomer did. His gaze transfixed, intoxicated as if he too had been participating in the contest. It would not be difficult to turn away, he would fade - almost completely - out of your memory, a slight flicker of your time spent in the Fellowship. 

But he walked towards you, ignoring the shouts of encouragement and seduction from his men. You slipped out of Legolas’ grip into the arms of a mortal. 

Perhaps a time would come when you and Legolas would sit together, backs against rough tree bark. All would be forgotten. You might sit, trying to remember names of your companions - trying to remember the woods of home. Gimli. Aragorn. Gandalf. Éomer. _Éomer_. 

“Éomer,” you spoke his name out loud now, a continuation of the chant in your mind. He grinned - rough, giddy, lustful.

The cold night air hit your face.

Moonlight flickered through the cover of the clouds. The darkness war hung over these lands now. You could not see the northern sky. 

“You will visit Mirkwood one day, will you not?” You smiled at the man next to you. 

“I will.”

A pause. Perhaps the winds of the mountains had followed you here. 

His hand still clutched yours, tightly.

“I have been cursed with immortality.” The stars flickered, angry. 

Éomer was quiet, his eyes gazing at the sky. He did not have to speak, his emotions rang clear in your mind. Love, fear, grief.

“I would stand over your grave and breathe life back in to you if it meant I could walk with you to the halls of your ancestors.”

He froze, breathing stilled. Ghosts of horses and riders charging towards you flickered through your mind. A memory of horse sweat and spears, your bow aimed at Éomer’s neck. 

“And I do not wish to cause you pain,” he spoke softly, his head falling against your shoulder. Summertime. 

Your hand ran through his hair - soft, silky - a mane. His body muscular and exhausted. His warmth was devouring, like the fires that had destroyed your home. 

“You remind me of home,” a whisper, yet you knew he heard. “My first home.” 

He did not answer.

“I do not feel safety in your arms but I feel comfort. And there is pain too, but there shall always be pain.”

His hand traced your face, “You are hallowed or haunted. I cannot decide.”

“Perhaps I am both.”

Silence. The quiet the moment before a battle charge, the emptiness as hope was lost. A bird flew low, a horse whinnied. Éomer’s restraint snapped - the bowstring after an arrow flew. 

He was predatory, desire burning in his eyes. The thrill of a fight, the desperation of loss. His eyes gleamed, blazed, devoured. 

Your back touched the wood as your hands found his hair once again. Your centuries seeped from you, your breath mingled with his. You felt human for an instant. 

Ale. Berries. Poison. His mouth was warm on yours. The faint smell of leather and horses tainted his skin. Salt. _The sea_. Muscles strong and aching, scars that traced across his shoulder, disappearing into the smooth of his chest. 

Your breath faltered for an instant - overwhelming. The stars did not watch, you did not have to sail to Valinor just yet. Éomer and his mortality were too engraving. 

And as you pulled back, he stood there like a hazy memory of a king you once knew. But he was real, a passing minute in the weary seasons. He was the sun that burned and blistered your skin - the emblem of the Rohan flag - the sun that would leave scars. 

Your name fell from his lips, a plea. A memory.


End file.
